Welcome to In-Dee-Aaaaaaaaahhh!!!

by C&K (with a nod to our friend Ted for the title of this entry)

We are a long way from home.

Stepping off the plane onto Indian soil is like landing on a different planet.  No matter how prepared you are for this country, no matter how much you've read or how much you've been warned, nothing can prepare you for this onslaught.  Words cannot fully describe this place - you just have to experience it for yourself.

In short, on my first day in India, I managed to be reprimanded by airport security, mistakenly accept help from a tout, receive hushed offers of pot on three different street corners, be accosted by a beggar lady with a dancing monkey on a leash, have some "wax" removed from my ear by a "foreign objects body healer", be followed for two city blocks by a woman carrying a starving child, and get offered the roll of an extra in a Bollywood movie.

I shit you not.  This was my first day.

The following is an illustration of why one should arrive in India fully rested and alert after a good night's sleep, as opposed to sleep-deprived with one's head in a fog.

We arrive in the confusion of a Mumbai morning, exhausted and groggy from a hectic flight schedule. (Having spent eight hours of the previous day flying from Melbourne to Singapore, we then spent the night trying to catch a few winks in the Singapore airport before boarding a 6 AM flight to Mumbai - not conducive to a fresh start in India.)  Tired, bedraggled, and without a place to stay yet, we collect our luggage and leave the airport into the wall of humid heat that is Mumbai.

On our way out of the airport, we glance at the pre-paid taxi booth with brief consideration.  Eager to hone our bartering skills, and confident in our trusty Rough Guide guidebook, we opt instead to barter the drivers down to an acceptable fare.  However, much to our chagrin (and contrary to the behaviour of all other taxi drivers in India), the next available taxi driver in the rank wants us to purchase a pre-paid ticket into the city.  So I leave Katherine at the taxi rank with our backpacks and re-enter the airport, heading for the pre-paid taxi counter.  I cannot see a main entrance, so I merely retrace my steps and head through the exit.

Two steps into the airport, a security guard - who had been calmly sitting at his post a moment earlier as he watched me walk through the exit - is suddenly yelling at me and brandishing his shiny rifle.  Him not speaking any English and me not yet knowing any Hindi proves to be a bit of a problem, and for a fraction of a second it occurs to me that I might be in trouble.  However, with the help of an officious-looking airport employee who is able to translate for us, I am able to prove that I have only just arrived in India (and therefore have reason to enter the aiport through the exit) by producing my boarding pass stub and passport. Whew! Pre-paid taxi ticket in hand, I again join Katherine in the Mumbai heat.

Mumbai is home to 16 million people, the effects of which are soon very obvious. It is an hour-and-a-half taxi ride (!) from the airport past the slums to the city centre. The mayhem of Mumbai hits us full on. There are people and vehicles absolutely everywhere with horns in every key blaring as drivers compete for space on choked roadways. A constant haze of diesel- and leaden gasoline-generated pollution, and a strange concoction of smells - most of them unpleasant - waft through the open window.  Each time our driver stops at a red light he invariably opens the door to spit, while we are accosted by children trying to sell us plastic-wrapped best-selling novels through the windows.

Mindblown, we reach the district of Colaba, where we hope to find a room for the night. Being a relatively touristy district, Colaba is in close proximity to several of the sights in Mumbai (including the Gateway to India), markets and the major train stations, so it seems like a good entry point into the India experience.  We have not yet booked a hotel or hostel, so our non-English speaking driver tries to help us out.  We try to avoid the touts - those dodgy characters that get paid a commission for helping you find whatever you need in India - but we also don't know where to tell the driver to drop us off.  So ... we end up with a tout.

We are starting to shake off a little of the travel weariness and manage to lose the tout in the streets of Colaba relatively quickly.  With the tout off our heels and Katherine guarding our backpacks in the shade, I set out to check out what Colaba has to offer for hotels and guesthouses.  My expectations are not high, but nothing looks great, and I am optimistic that there must be better value for money somewhere!

Along the way, I am accosted by a woman carrying a small child; it is impossible for me to even begin to guess the age of the child due to his state of malnourishment. Assuring me that she does not want money, she begs me to purchase some milk for him.  Hot, weary, and emotionally battered, I reluctantly decline. She tries again, so I counter with "maybe later". That seems to satisfy her, and she leaves me alone. (I know, I know ... by now you all must think I am the biggest bastard, but I implore you to keep reading.)

I turn onto Colaba Causeway, a major through-fair in the area, which is lined with market stalls full of glittering jewelry, vibrant fabrics and textiles, tasty (and not-so-tasty) looking food stuffs, and a myriad of other touristy goods. As I turn the corner, a little monkey lands on my feet, accompanied by a wild cackle from the wrinkled old lady that is attached to the animal via a leash.  Startled, I jump backwards; I am thankful of the fact that I have not yet had the opportunity to change out of my shoes and into my sandals. The monkey proceeds to run up his owner's leg and onto her shoulder, and she pats it assuredly on the head.  It then does a flying leap onto a post, shimmies down, and does a little dance in the middle of the busy sidewalk.  The locals walking by take no notice, but a few tourists stop to look at this withered old dame and her dancing primate.  The monkey squats down a few times, giving the impression that it's going to take a crap on the sidewalk, but then continues its dancing antics. This spectacle is, of course, followed by a request for money. Not sure whether to be amused by this little monkey or to feel sorry for it, I push my way past the pair of them and carry on my mission.

By this time I've looked at several hotel rooms - some with AC, some without, some with windows, others that feel like prison cells - and am now confident that I have a decent frame of reference for our accomodation options.  I head back to rejoin Katherine.

A couple of blocks from my destination I am approached by a young man.  Having already dealt with several people and a monkey, I am prepared to brush him off, but he captures my attention when he tells me that I have something in my ear. I stick my finger in my ear but can't feel anything.  He continues motioning to my ear, and I can't clearly make out what he's trying to tell me. I become paranoid that I have some weird tropical bug burrowing into my skull, so I let him touch my head.  When he brings his hand away he has what looks like a giant metal Q-tip in his hand, and he's rolling a big glob of earwax around on his palm.  He tries to convince me that this came out of my ear, but there's no way in hell that thing came out of me!  He shoves his business card into my hand and introduces himself as a healer with 30 years of experience removing foreign objects from people's bodies. Yeah right!  The guy probably isn't even 30 years old!  He follows me when I start to move away, so I throw his card on the street and run, terrified that this creep will touch me again and pretend to pull weird goo out of my orifices.

I walk not another half block further when I am again accosted by the woman with the frail child who needs milk, reminding me that I had promised to buy her some milk "later" and that it is now indeed later.  If I had any patience before, I have definitely lost it by now!  She grabs my shirt sleeve, but I wrestle away from her and and outrun her, losing her around a corner (she is carrying a child, after all).  I now feel like a total bastard, but I reason that there are over a billion people in this country and I can't singlehandedly help them all.  Handing out alms to the poor is expected if you're a rich saahib travelling in India, but if I'd helped everyone I've met today I would surely be broke by now.  Perhaps it will be easier tomorrow to decide who should receive my rupees.

I race back to Katherine, who at this point is still oblivious to my ordeal.  I decide that, after all of that, the first hotel I had tried would be our best bet for the night.  On our way there, another tout sniffs us out. In an attempt to shake him off, we tiredly agree to look at his "cheap hotel", which is only (of course!) "100 metres" away.  After what feels like a kilometer, we check out his suggested establishment; in comparison to my choice, this place is definitely not worth it, so we decline and continue on our way.  Not to be outdone, Tout #2 follows us all the way - no amount of "No, thank yous", "We know where we're goings", or just plain ignoring him does the trick - and proceeds to try to wheedle a commission out of our chosen hotel proprietor!  Luckily for us, the proprietor remembers me from my initial visit and, realizing what the tout is up to, turfs the snake out in a foul mood.

By now we are starving, so we head out to find some food.  In our short jaunt along the main street in search of a decent restaurant, we are offered marijuana no less than three times. (According to many bloodshot-eyed tourists we met, India is an awesome place to visit if you want cheap pot.) The method in which these guys peddle their product is hilarious, and works like this: As you are crossing an intersection, a little Indian dude will walk straight toward you - not an uncommon event in itself, given the crowded mayhem on the street.  When you try to sidestep, he alters course and continues his beeline towards you, and at the last moment before collision whispers, "Hashish," in your ear, and then just keeps on walking.  It's almost seductive the way they do it.  And it's not a question of whether you want it, it's a statement that they've got the goods.  "Hashish."  "Pot."  "Weed."  "Smokes."  It's arrest if you get caught with the stuff - hence their discretion - but it's amusing.  They must be one of the few peddlars in India who won't follow you for the length of a city block for a sale!

It's getting dark by now, and we are trying to decide which of the food establishments to brave. As we dodge traffic while crossing the street, a well-heeled young Indian man on a motorcycle comes to stop in front of us and calls out, "You want to be an extra in a Bollywood movie?  We need some white people!"  Momentarily stunned, we come to our senses and quickly sidestep him.  As we disappear into the crowd, we can hear his desparate cries of, "Come on!  It's Bollywood!  You'll get paid to do it!"

We've had enough for one day.  Right about now, the westernized food on the menu at that tourist restaurant is looking pretty good.  We duck into the boring - but safe - restaurant full of fellow caucasians for dinner.  We slump into our chairs, pick a couple of recognizable dishes, and chow down.

Believe it or not, this was Day One.

Welcome to India.